


Between Lions and Gods (and Men)

by GoodFrith



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6490009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodFrith/pseuds/GoodFrith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Apollo made flowers in his grief but Achilles was always more the warrior than the poet."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Lions and Gods (and Men)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [this painful artwork](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/188155) by Arianwen44 over on tumblr. 



Achilles has not ceased screaming. Odysseus fears that perhaps he will not stop. Apollo made flowers in his grief but Achilles was always more the warrior than the poet. He is a lion, roaring across the plain, rattling Troy’s walls in anguish. None will sleep while he grieves.

It is useless to offer him food or wine or even to separate him from the corpse. Yet, he tries again. Seeing him like this- back bowed, _screaming_ at the gods, hands blood drenched- Odysseus remembers how young he is. He imagines his own young son, suffering. He too had a hand in this.

“Achilles, rest now. Tomorrow the whole of Troy’s army will quake at your roars.”

Achilles is not his son, he forgets. He is a lion.

His eyes are burning and his hair is an ash tangled mane. He roars, with all his teeth and there are whispers that Dionysus has taken him to madness. If they only watched, they would see. His clawed hands only scratch at the earth seeking his closest friend, his eyes roll because he cannot bear the bloodied remains.

Finally, finally, the screaming stops. The lion stoops and groans. His tears quench the sand, spilling gold. “Patroclus, Patroclus, Patroclus-”

He rises like Atlas, and the dogs -human and animal- prick their ears. One of Patroclus’ mutts sniffs hesitantly at his master’s feet. Odysseus fears Achilles will kick the ribs from its body, such is his rage.

He roars at it instead, with the full force of his hate. “ ** _Do you not know your master?_** ” The dog’s startled baying is hardly sound, with the screams echoing in their ears.

He has seen many men fall, hundreds and yet he cannot bear to look upon this scene any longer. Such is the grief that Achilles emits, that though the prince’s death is sealed, Odysseus fears if he should ever see Penelope or little Telemachus in this life.

 

In the morning, the camp is tense and still, too quiet after the roaring. The birds have not even returned with the dawn. A bloodied shroud lies in the agora. When Achilles emerges, newly armed, he walks over it blindly. He has only one thought in his head.

The king of Ithaca has only heard the grey eyed maiden in his dreams. He thinks however that for all of Agamemnon’s scrabbling, this is the closest they will ever get to godliness.

It is unsettling, truly. The eyes that had dripped gold last night stare unblinking now, even as his glorious horses bathe him in dust. There is a blindness in his eyes now to all but Hector. A path of bloodied silence lies in his wake, a great wound in the field of jostling men.

He downs Scamander and the Gods fear him like one of their own. Had he a mind to, they know he could twist fate, reduce Troy’s gate to a gaping mortal wound. He could set a golden apple amongst the humans as easily as any of them. He does not. He desires only one mortal wound, only one death and it will never be enough.

There is a god-belov’d prince dragging in his stead. The rapturous eyes of men follow him and yet Achilles looks to only one place. Briseis is cast from the tent, bloodied water pooling at her feet from when she tried to tend Patroclus. The first libation to this new god, drunk thirstily by the earth.

Is he truly a god, could he become? He will die. This is certain. Then again, he tells himself, so did Heracles. He died and ascended, searing the mortal flesh from his soul to claim his seat on Mt Olympus.

Achilles does his best to fend off Thanatos for the corpse and Hypnos for himself. He even keeps Patroclus’ soul from the Host of Many by his litany. “Patroclus” he weeps from his heart, praying for his therapon to haunt him, binding him through naming. His mouth has forgotten all other syllables, this is the only prayer his heavy tongue can breathe.

 

He falls, as all men do in the end. Nymphs and goddesses weep, offerings richer than any mere drip of wine. A house is built for their remains but is claimed for only one. He was a god in his grief, born of immortal separation. Their urn and its cave might yet receive mortal libations, Odysseus muses, from grieved wives and young lovers. Those who understand the pain of being left behind, who find no relief in the piety of the pyre or the empty shield.

Then again, he thinks to himself, he is but a mortal. While no fool, what could he know of lions?

**Author's Note:**

> If I remember right Achilles gets compared to a lion a few times in the Iliad so excuse the motif. I always like the idea of Achilles becoming a minor god of grief, offering solace to those bereaved who pray to him and then that art happened and then this happened.  
> Comments or crit are very appreciated and if youve enjoyed please consider leaving a little kudos!


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